been missed, and there had been a search
for it, in which Henry had joined. He was miserable, and he wanted to
confess that he had the ball, but every time he opened his lips to say
that he had it, he felt afraid, and so he had refrained from speaking.
He felt, too, that every one knew that he had taken it, but still he
could not confess that he had it, and when they said, "Isn't it queer? I
wonder where it's gone!" he had answered, "Yes, isn't it queer?" They
had abandoned the search, and had played another game, but all the
pleasure of the party was lost for Henry. He kept saying to himself,
"You've got it. _You've_ got it!..."

He had hurried home after the party was over, and when he reached the
shrubbery, he dug a hole and buried the ball in it. He had closed his
eyes as he took it out of his pocket, so that he should not see the
bright colours of it, and had heaped the earth on to it as if he could
not conceal it quickly enough ... but burying it had not quieted his
mind. He felt, whenever he met Mr. Maginn, that the vicar looked at him
as if he were saying to himself, "You stole the woollen ball!...." At
the end of the month, he had gone to his father and told him of it, and
Mr. Quinn had cocked his eye at him for a moment and considered the
subject.

"If I were you, Henry," he had said, "I'd dig up that ball and take it
back to Mr. Maginn and just tell him about it!"

Henry could remember how hard it had been to do that, how he had
loitered outside the gates of the vicarage for an hour, trying to force
himself to go up to the door and ask for the vicar ... and how kind Mr.
Maginn had been when, at last, he had made his confession!

Oh, yes, he remembered!...

"You were a funny wee lad, Henry," Mr. Quinn said, taking his son's hand
in his. "Always imaginin' things!" He thought for a second or two. "I
suppose," he went on, "that's what makes you able to write books ...
imaginin' things! Ay, that's it!"

They sat in quietness for a while, and then Mr. Quinn fell asleep, and
Henry went down to the library and worked again on his new novel, for
which he had not yet found a title; and in his sleep, Mr. Quinn died.

3

Henry had finished a chapter of the book, and he put down his pen, and
yawned. He was tired, and he thought gratefully of tea. Hannah would
bring a tray to his father's room. There would be little soda farls and
toasted barn-brack, and perhaps she would have made "slim-jim," and
there would b